Fully Rested | Sabrina Santa Clara

I’ve never been all that great at pretending
that forced laughter meant everything was okay,
that my heart wasn’t raw and bleeding.

I’ve never been much good at turning the other cheek.
I have a tendency to walk straight into the fire
with nothing but nerve.
Somehow,
I survive it.
Really,
I’ve got a body full of burns to prove it.

I’ve never been successful at shying away.
I am either cursed or blessed
with a curiosity that pulls me deep
into pools of self-reflection.
Skimming the surface,
dipping winged feet in cool water, sounds so lovely.
But dive too deep and the lungs scream for air
while the body scrambles up
through the oppressive weight of water’s gravity,
shifted now from sinewy to sinister.

And even sitting safely on the bank,
gazing at the smooth reflective surface,
it can turn hard quite fast —
like staring at yourself in the mirror
unblinking, unblinking,
until the shape of your own face is unrecognizable,
until it is a stranger who stares back at you.

Like repeating a word out loud
over and over
until meaning is lost,
until you hear only sound
and your native tongue is an alien in your own ears.

I’ve never once been able to wait for rescue.
I have always had to find my own way back up.
Alone.
I am stronger for it,
I know.

But being strong is exhausting.

I would really, really like to experience
being fully rested.